


Abyssal Games

by gentlezombie



Category: Forgotten Realms, The Legend of Drizzt Series - R. A. Salvatore
Genre: Bregan D'Aerthe - Freeform, Canon-Typical Violence, Drow culture, Gen, Ghosts, Minor Character Death, Minor Character(s), Original Character(s), Psionics, evil matriarchy, reference to canon-typical incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-16
Updated: 2017-12-16
Packaged: 2019-02-15 14:06:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,759
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13032741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gentlezombie/pseuds/gentlezombie
Summary: Three ghosts pay a visit to Kimmuriel, who has newly joined Bregan D'aerthe after the fall of his house. There is a game to be played and a mercenary leader to impress.





	Abyssal Games

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CartoonAddict564](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CartoonAddict564/gifts).



> Happy Yuletide, CartoonAddict564!
> 
> The details on House Oblodra as well as some aspects of drow culture are taken from the _Menzoberranzan - City of Intrigue_ D &D roleplaying book. Otherwise, I've relied mainly on _Siege of Darkness_ by R. A. Salvatore, and the rest of the books I've read up to _The Sundering_ have been an influence as well.
> 
> I have head-canoned Kimmuriel being rather young in drow terms at this point, though I believe we are never told his actual age.

The base of the Bregan D’aerthe mercenaries clung to the shadows of the Clawrift, a schism that tore through the city of Menzoberranzan like a great avenging hand. Its location was secret to most denizens of the city.

Currently Jarlaxle Baenre, the illustrious mercenary leader, was in the process of interviewing his newest recruit.

“Young Oblodra,” said the leader of Bregan D’aerthe, flicking his gaudy hat to a better angle with one finger. “What am I to make of you?”

The young drow did not move from the meditative stance he had been in when his privacy had been breached. He had his own room in the Bregan D’aerthe base. It wasn’t unheard of, but slightly out of the ordinary in the cramped compound. He suspected this was because no one was keen to share with him. The situation suited him well enough. They had given him a room with a window facing the rift – out of a desire to test him, as he well knew.

“Since you went to such trouble to obtain me, I am sure you know that already.” The drow was eyeing Jarlaxle subtly, trying to divulge his intentions. He did not think such arrogance would provoke violence, but the mercenary leader was famously unpredictable.

That earned a chuckle from Jarlaxle. “I would much rather hear it from you. I do love a conversationalist.”

The drow sighed soundlessly. “I am Kimmuriel Oblodra, son of an insignificant number, to a house now fallen to the depths of the Clawrift. Such as that house was, you know or suspect my talents. You are wearing your eyepatch over your right eye.”

Jarlaxle smiled at that. “And thus you are left to guessing about my intentions.”

“Unless I wanted to alert you to my attempts of reading your thoughts, yes.”

Kimmuriel had in truth given it a try, thought better of it, and wanted Jarlaxle to know this.

“You show more interest in me than your words betray,” Jarlaxle said.

“I must, since you hold the keys to my fate.”

”Then I shall not bother you with the idle chatter you clearly dislike. I have thought of a test for you. It lies in two parts.”

Kimmuriel tilted his head slightly.

“First: to my grief and consternation, I have reason to believe there is a spy in my organisation. You will find out his identity and report to me. And second: you will dispose of him in as flamboyant a fashion as possible. There is a point to be made here.”

The plainly-dressed drow, who wore no jewellery nor visible weapons, frowned at him.

“Flamboyant?”

“I’ll leave you to think on that, psionicist.”

 

**_Down goes the wizard_ **

 

Kimmuriel thought it a great irony that the mercenary compound was located in the same rift that had swallowed his house. Bregan D’aerthe survived there, thrived and made profit free of the constraints of the matron mothers – or as close to that as possible. For a surviving member of Oblodra, however, the rift offered more than shelter and secrecy.

The first nightly visitation had Kimmuriel slamming up his mental defenses. They were still rather weak, since all psionics had been incapacitated in the Lolth-favoured destruction of their house. The ghostly silhouette of his brother clung to the window ledge carved in the stone wall. Hazaufein, the house wizard, whose gift with magical arms and armour Kimmuriel had appreciated. Had he possessed any gift for the art of wizardry, Kimmuriel might have wished to learn some of his skills. The wizard had not been overly cruel, or weak. But Hazaufein had barely noticed the unremarkable psionicist in life.

Now his angular features were twisted into a grimace. A part of his face had exploded away, and the downturn of his mouth had become perpetual, since half of his jaw was gone. He opened and closed his mouth – his tongue had been mangled. There would be no more reciting finely crafted incantations. Of course not. He was dead. The image was hazy, as if a wisp of smoke had stolen features and a presence.

It was fascinating. Kimmuriel had never faced a ghost before.

Though he was sitting bolt upright in his bed, his voice remained calm. “Hazaufein. To what do I owe this visit?”

The ghost’s still-red eyes focused on him.

“You survived. You, who I thought would not last the psionic training. Always with eyes on the ground, never a toe out of line. Not an ambitious bone in this one’s body...”

“And yet I outlasted you all.” Kimmuriel was carefully testing the room for any psionic influence, but he found none. Only a cold spot surrounding the ghost.

“Cleverer than we thought,” the ghost of Hazaufein rasped. “It was Drizfryn who pushed me into the way of the bolt thrown by a tanar’ri. I would demand vengeance did I not know that he is dead.”

Drizfryn, the house weapon master, who had had a long-standing feud with Hazaufein. Not so surprising that even with their house on the brink of destruction, attacked by fiends called from the Abyss, he had found a chance to wrest the upper hand.

“I have no interest in vengeance,” Kimmuriel said.

Hazaufein barked out a laugh. “But survival interests you, little one. And me, since you are all that is left. Know this: someone seeks your death.”

Kimmuriel shivered against his will. The ghost’s wet, whispery voice slid like a tentacle down his spine.

“Mine?” he murmured. “I am nothing.”

“You lie,” the ghost said. “You will be much.”

Then the ghost turned its head, as if it had heard a call, and a look of desperation stole over its face.

“No! I will not go back! Not to her, not to them!”

He was not asked. For a moment more Hazaufein’s form seemed to hold on. Then the wispy form was whisked away as though by an invisible wind.

All was quiet. Kimmuriel found no traces of psionics or magic. Nothing was out of place.

He had only fought to hide any links to his family during those first chaotic days before Jarlaxle’s recruiters had found him, when he had been trying to lay low in Eastmyr. Thinking about his family now evoked no discernible feeling, though the idea that they were all gone forever was strange.

That one of them should come to him after death told him there could be something more to it. Or perhaps it only meant their fate was so unbearable they would do anything to escape it, even briefly.

A warning. He could not see why such a thing would have been delivered needlessly, though perhaps ghosts had their own games and schemes. Nevertheless, Kimmuriel started to once again inspect the web of psionic defenses encircling his door.

This time he also took special care with the window.

 

**_Down goes the priestess_ **

 

It took a few nights for the second ghost to appear. This time the apparition didn’t take Kimmuriel by surprise. He was vaguely annoyed that his psionic defenses failed to keep the ghosts out, but had to concede that his powers were not yet fully recovered.

The stooping figure of Quavylene, the first priestess, graced him with her presence. She had been quite literally torn apart by the great tentacles which had wrenched their house from its perch on the cliffside. She was missing her arms and a leg and hovered in the air, closed in on herself. Not so different from how she had been in life under matron mother K’yorl.

For a moment Kimmuriel sat on the edge of his bed, ready to lash out with psionics, then relaxed purposefully. He met the ghost eye to eye – something he would never have done when she was alive. Even cowed, she was vicious and jealous of her standing, and he a male so far below her he wasn’t even a speck of dust. But she was a ghost now. A mere trick of smoke.

“You,” she gasped. “Who… who are you? Where am I?”

She looked about her in confusion, then repeated the question psionically. The contact was distant and distorted, like a badly tuned instrument.

“You are in the Clawrift,” Kimmuriel answered, surprised that she had a mind left. He took brief enjoyment from the horror on her face as memory bloomed in the shred of consciousness. “In the compound of Bregan D’aerthe, where I did not invite you.”

“The Clawrift! The rift… Where we fell endlessly with screams and fire and the great black hand of Lolth… Where we wander forever, curse forever, hunt forever for the great amusement of the Lady of the Spiders.”

Quavylene spoke quickly; the words tumbled out in halts and hisses. She kept turning her head this way and that, an unnatural movement as if her neck had been broken.

Kimmuriel cut the ghost’s ramblings short.

“Why are you here, Quavylene?”

He was purposefully curt and rude, and that snapped the ghost out of its horror.

“You miserable male who lives while your betters lie dead!” Her psionic presence snapped like the crack of a whip, but it was weak enough not to hurt him. “You carry the name of our house. Oblodra is not dead, not while you remain. You and a few others, though they have fled.”

“Then they were wise.”

“They have abandoned this city, abandoned their house to ruin. And ruined we are, and dead, and rotting… But you must not die. While you live, there is proof. Proof that we existed. And you can get us justice.”

Kimmuriel scoffed.

“Justice? All of Menzoberranzan stood witness to the justice of Lolth. They will not care about the rules of house wars. Not this time. The word of a renegade has no value. And I am, after all, only a miserable male.”

Quavylein hissed and seethed with anger.

“Pointless it is to reason with one such as you, one of flesh and blood, while I am called back to my sisters in the rift! Let it be enough that you know there is a price on your head. In this very compound lives one who intends to collect it.”

Her ghost vanished in a hissing swirl.

Kimmuriel did not fall into reverie again that night. A hunter here, among Bregan D’aerthe? He wouldn’t have deemed himself important enough. The famous malice of Yvonnel Baenre knew no bounds, but surely she valued her alliance with the mercenary band. A survivor of Faen Tlabbar, a House Oblodra had destroyed before their own doom? Unlikely but possible. He could not recall a member of that house among the mercenaries, but many of them took on crafted identities. He wondered now if he should have done so himself.

For a drow with little care for pride or ambition, Kimmuriel was curiously attached to his name.

 

**_Down goes the mind-slaving matron_ **

 

Kimmuriel’s search for the spy and the potential enemy turned out to be frustrating in the extreme. Only a fraction of Bregan D’aerthe was ever present at the compound. He had to shift through their minds slowly like a child to avoid drawing attention while the psionic pathways were still reforming in his mind. The mercenaries were tiresomely ordinary, focused on assassinations and espionage and their own petty feuds and pleasures. Slightly more amusing than the males of his household, who had either been mad or too afraid of their matron mother to have an independent thought in their heads. These were rebels and malcontents and proud of it, but that didn’t make their thoughts any less base.

The only one to pique his interest was their leader, who had, once again, mysteriously disappeared.

He could still have done without excitement of the undead variety.

Kimmuriel thought himself well prepared for ghastly visitors by now. However, as matron mother K’yorl’s plain face materialised by the foot of his bed, his heart nearly jumped out of his chest. It was not unfounded, for ripping still-beating hearts out of people had been something of a pastime for K’yorl Odran. She appeared much more corporeal than the previous ghosts. The matron mother looked curiously unharmed, still clad in her unassuming clothes, which were not even torn. But seething flames danced in her eyes and fire crackled under her fingernails.

Kimmuriel knew what had happened to her. All of the city knew. She had been sent to the Abyss to be tortured by Errtu for all eternity as a punishment for defying the Spider Queen. And a part of her had clawed her way out through sheer malicious force of will, to him, to a son of no consequence.

Her presence emanated such power and hatred that Kimmuriel could not help his eyes from drifting towards the floor. Every bone in his body screamed that blood was about to be spilled – or worse. The males of House Oblodra had fewer whip marks on them than in the rest of the noble families. The marks were there, though. Scarred in mind, many would have preferred the lash. And no one survived matron mother K’yorl’s wrath without carrying the scars for the rest of their lives.

Her voice in his mind was like claws catching on soft skin, digging deep.

“So you were pitiful enough to survive, son of Oblodra. That you should live is an insult, a further humiliation from that queen of maggots! I should drag you out and cast you into the rift where you belong. Or better yet, take you with me from whence I came. Would that not be the greatest of honours?”

Kimmuriel glanced up to see the fire flashing in her eyes. He felt a brush of terror, for he had no doubt she would have desired that. He had never linked minds with her in life, but now she must know all – that he thought her a mad tyrant whose demise was a stroke of luck.

“You dare!” she hissed, meeting his eyes. “You who have no idea of what lies but a thin veil away dare disrespect me!

For all her words, she was an unmoving figure, still like stone, as if it took all the effort in her being to keep her grip of this plane.

“To what do I owe this pleasure, K’yorl Odran?” Kimmuriel thought at her.

K’yorl’s mind snapped at him, but he was braced for it. Her strength was but a shade of what it had once been. She shook with hatred, her hands opening and closing.

“Curse you! Curse you to this Abyss and beyond! Yet our blood flows through your veins. You have the psionic gift. And now I can see your strength is… not lacking. It is too prominent not to be noticed. You have concealed this from us!”

“And why not?” thought Kimmuriel. “Before this moment, you did not even know my name. That suited me. I know well what happened to my brothers, those of no consequence but some ability. They were used until their minds were in shreds, or offered as breeding pods for illithids. What a life to covet!”

“A son who covets nothing, without ambition or desire?” K’yorl’s thoughts curled around his unpleasantly. Now her mind took on a sly flavour. “Ah, but there are things you wish to accomplish here. A leader to impress, and he has surely impressed you. Do you know I intended to make him mine when all things had turned out victorious for us? I still have the potion that was meant to make him compliant. Would you not like that?”

Kimmuriel was not surprised. Matron mother K’yorl had rarely met anyone who had not been terrified of her. He sensed that Jarlaxle had been one of those people, and thus he had caught the matron’s eye. Lucky for Jarlaxle that things had turned out differently!

“Enough of this,” Kimmuriel said sharply. He wasn’t averting his eyes any longer. “What do you wish of me? Say it and be gone to your home to the Abyss where you are no doubt eagerly awaited.”

“Many times cursed son!” She struggled to master herself. Her form, at first so solid, had grown more shadowy. Red flames danced behind her. “Our family line is not broken. I wish for your blood. Our gift must not die out. You must find the survivors and start anew. And in time, avenge us.”

House Oblodra was famous, among other things, for mating inside the house. The psionic gift must not be diluted with outsider blood. K’yorl wanted him to track down one of his sisters and continue the line of psionically gifted offspring – no matter that a good deal of them turned out to be mad or malformed.

“Find one of my sisters and mate with her? That is your wish?”

“Yes,” she hissed, almost in pleasure. “Were you not born of such a union? I forget. I only kept count of the remarkable ones.”

Kimmuriel’s lips twitched at that. Predictable to the last. “I have no desire to find any sisters of mine, nor do I want to rebuild a house that was built on such weak ground that it gave away beneath our feet.”

“No!” The flames which had teased at her washed over her face, leaving it briefly charred, until her features settled again into the psionic illusion. “What of my offer? What of my vengeance? You must grant me my vengeance!”

“I will not. I haven’t any interest in anything you offer. I am sorry, perhaps-mother, that my lack in ambition is in the way of yours. Now I believe you are very busy somewhere else.”

“I will haunt you! I will flay your mind, burn it, crush in beneath my heel! I will… No! Not yet!”

The flames flashed so brightly around her that for a moment Kimmuriel was blinded. Then a great black hand circled her thin waist and tore her away from the plane of Toril. Her last, prolonged scream echoed in the small chamber.

After the last remnants of her screech had dissipated, Kimmuriel did something quite out of the ordinary. He dug out a bottle of wine and proceeded to drink. The bittersweet wine chased the taste of sulfur away from his mouth.

There was much to think on. The discussion with K’yorl had confirmed what Quavylene had claimed: that there were other survivors outside of Menzoberranzan. A new path opened there if he so chose. And aside from demands, she had offered him something which could have helped him greatly. With a mind-bending potion he could have had Jarlaxle under his thumb.

But with about half of the deep-plum wine gone, he came to the conclusion that he wanted neither of those things.

He wanted to win Jarlaxle’s favour through his own efforts. Only then would it be lasting enough for bonds of convenience to be built.

He did not wish to create a new house in secret over the centuries. The position of a patron held little appeal. Kimmuriel already had a house here, one which would serve him as well as any other. Even better, if the promised freedom of Bregan D’aerthe proved to be true.

That, and much else, depended on his ability to impress their elusive leader.

 

**_Come join us, come play in the rift of claws_ **

 

Kimmuriel disliked his present situation immensely. He stood in the great hall where the mercenaries gathered to eat and drink and spend their free time on comfortable, cushioned benches. Idle chatter filled the air, and a barrage of thoughts flitted through his mind like a swarm of moths. He’d finally regained full use of his psionic abilities, honed them and polished them, and now he had to make a show of them.

Jarlaxle was sitting on a table, one foot propped on it, in a customary show of nonchalance. Kimmuriel could feel the awe concentrated around this peacock of a drow and found it disturbingly catching. He shook himself free of it and concentrated.

There, at one of the side tables. He had felt it before: a resistance to his probing mind, caused by an enchanted item or a ritual. Most likely a ritual, because the effect had been waning day by day, finally enough for him to get what he needed.

“Geldaer Tlabbar,” he called out in the drow’s mind, brushing aside the remaining defenses.

The mercenary slammed his cup on the table, almost dropping it. Eyes turned to his direction.

“That is your name, though you no longer use it,” Kimmuriel said aloud, walking to the centre of the room. He felt the stares on him and repressed a shudder. “Geldaer of House Faen Tlabbar, which is no more. A commoner adopted into the house, yet faithful to them even in their demise. Or should I call you Geldaer Baenre now, since you switch alliances like names?”

Whispers filled the room. Jarlaxle remained in his comfortable slouch, yet his eyes took in every detail. Kimmuriel could sense the aggression and disquiet among the mercenaries. At any moment this could explode into violence. Having to play to the audience and speak aloud was grating on his nerves, when all could have been communicated so elegantly through psionics.

“Yes, I know of the deal you made with Baenre. A houseless drow taken into Bregan D’aerthe would be a wellspring of information for them. And you were not difficult to buy, were you? What was it they promised you, I wonder?”

“You know nothing, illithid-bred scum!” Geldaer growled. “You are a liar, mad like all in your cursed house!” His hand strayed to his crossbow, but a sharp gesture from Jarlaxle stilled him.

An image flashed in Kimmuriel’s mind, startling in its detail.

“Vengeance on Oblodra,” he sighed. “That is what they sold you.”

“Kimmuriel, explain this,” Jarlaxle said. He finally hopped down from the table, careful to keep an eye on both parties.

“He was promised my death,” Kimmuriel said. “In gruesome detail, I might add. He carries a potion he intends to use on me to suppress my psionics. Are you so afraid of me, son of Faen Tlabbar?”

Geldaer aimed vicious thoughts of death and dismemberment at him, though his hand had moved away from his crossbow.

“You have no proof,” he said, smiling and spreading his hands. “I have friends here who can speak for me. Can you say the same?”

“How I tire of these petty feuds brought to my doorstep,” Jarlaxle sighed. “You know I could have the truth tortured out of the both of you, but I rather dislike the mess.”

His eyepatch was over his left eye today, though he must have some other protection against mind-reading. Kimmuriel could only touch the surface of his thoughts. Boredom, disappointment. No! This was not how this was supposed to go! He’d thought the truth would be enough, but when was it ever in the city of the dark elves? He had to catch Jarlaxle’s eye.

A thought came to Kimmuriel, one he had dismissed before. Without pausing to consider it, he plunged forward.

“We can solve this among ourselves and spare you the trouble,” Kimmuriel said with a nod to Jarlaxle. “Since you do not yet trust my word, trust my actions instead. Geldaer Tlabbar,” he said for the whole room to hear, adding a psionic flourish to the words, “I challenge you to a game of khaless!”

A ripple of surprise and excitement spread through the room. Khaless! Mad indeed. The game had been first practiced by the warriors of House Oblodra, but it had gained some popularity among the more reckless nobles of other houses. It was a duel played out above one of the city’s three rifts, traditionally inside a globe of darkness and silence. The participants would try to outdo each other before their levitation magic gave out. The one who first exited the globe of darkness voluntarily or by plunging to their death was the loser. House Oblodra had lost countless warriors to the game.

“He is out of his mind,” Geldaer said, echoing the mercenaries’ thoughts. But Jarlaxle smiled.

“A game of khaless, where the word of the victor stands true? I like the sound of it. It will provide us with much-needed amusement. In fact, I suggest we move on to this game of trust – with a few modifications.”

That had Kimmuriel frowning in worry, but there was nothing for it now. The Faen Tlabbar stood up and gathered his greatsword, which had rested within easy reach. Kimmuriel spied several throwing knives about his person, spiked gauntlets, and a flash of chainmail under his black tunic. Marvellous. A warrior. Kimmuriel himself had only his plain clothes and a small dagger. In that moment, he was uncomfortably reminded of K’yorl’s appearance right before she had been dragged back to the Abyss. He extinguished the thought and followed Jarlaxle’s lead.

 

**_Dance the dance in death’s mouth_ **

 

They floated above the Clawrift in a seemingly opaque globe of pure darkness and silence. Jarlaxle’s wizard had altered the spell in such a way that the onlookers had an unobstructed view of the fight, while the duellists remained blind. Kimmuriel was not surprised – of course Jarlaxle would bend the rules in order not to miss out.

The mercenary leader was sitting in a chair brought out to the cliff edge, with a great number of Bregan D’aerthe mercenaries surrounding him. He had a goblet of wine in his hand. Kimmuriel could glean nothing of his thoughts. That confirmed his suspicions. The earlier glimpse into Jarlaxle’s mind hadn’t been a slip but intentional. The mercenary leader turned out to be quite interesting.

Geldaer Tlabbar entered the globe with great flourish, a perfect show of anger and indignation. Only Kimmuriel could sense his doubts. However this turned out, his usefulness to House Baenre would suffer greatly. That made Kimmuriel smile as he stepped lightly into the air. From here, he could see the pitiful remains of the Oblodra compound, but once he entered the globe of darkness, the whole outside world ceased to exist.

Anyone else would have been robbed of all their senses and left flailing in the dark. Kimmuriel was acutely aware of another mind in the globe, one with malicious intent. He could not determine Geldaer’s exact location, not as clearly as he would have liked. The warrior had gathered up his mental defenses – he must have been trained in this – but Kimmuriel got enough to gain an idea of his intentions.

The greatsword descended in a swishing arc towards his shoulder. Kimmuriel let the blow glance off him on purpose. His protective barrier was in place, and though he was thrown back by the hit, he took no damage. That blow should have cleaved off his arm. He sensed frustration from the warrior. Good. He avoided the next thrust to his stomach and the continued strike towards his neck, though only barely. Then he parried the next blow near-suicidally with his bare arm. It jarred him, and he grimaced. The next blow would smash trough his defenses.

But energy was bristling under Kimmuriel’s skin. His shield had absorbed the force of the warrior’s blows, and now it was a wild thing waiting to be released. When Geldaer came at him again with a great overhead blow, Kimmuriel turned his palms towards the warrior and let the energy loose. The force of the strike tumbled the warrior over. Though he could see nothing, Kimmuriel smelled blood and sensed the sickening feeling of chainmail melting into skin.

And he was not yet done. Geldaer’s mental defenses were in tatters, and Kimmuriel lashed out at him with his mind. The warrior reeled in anguish, though he was too formidable to be done in by a psychic barrage. That was not Kimmuriel’s intention. While he filled Geldaer’s mind with bloody nightmare images, he created a dimension door in front of the warrior. When Geldaer recovered and hurled himself at Kimmuriel with a shout of rage which echoed in the psionicist’s mind, he stepped right through the door.

Out of the globe of darkness.

Kimmuriel followed him in time to hear Geldaer’s curses. He narrowly avoided being hit on the neck by a swing of the greatsword. Though technically Geldaer had already lost, being the first one out of the globe, Kimmuriel doubted that made any difference to the maddened warrior. Now he could see that Geldaer’s right shoulder was bleeding profusely. He could also make out their audience far below.

He avoided the next two blows with as much luck as agility. This was the true test. Get rid of him, Jarlaxle had said.

Kimmuriel gathered up the rest of the energy stored by his protective barrier. When the Faen Tlabbar next came at him, he dodged the thrust and leaped. He pushed himself up by the other drow’s wounded shoulder and elicited a shout of pain. Then he let go of his levitation spell for a brief moment and descended on the warrior with all his weight. Kimmuriel released the stored energy, and the heel of his foot punched right through Geldaer’s chest with a disgusting squelch. At the same time, he opened a dimension door behind the warrior and kicked him through it.

The door opened far below in the Clawrift. For a moment, Geldaer’s falling form was visible, his piwafwi flapping, his chainmail glinting, until he plummeted out of the magically lit space. The greedy shadows of the rift swallowed him.

Kimmuriel caught up his levitation spell again and descended to the slow clapping from Jarlaxle. The approving amusement of the spectators washed over him like a clumsy caress. He blocked it out and managed a grim, blood-specked smile.

He wanted to go to his chamber, wash off the grime, and clean his mind of the contact with the distasteful spy, but he feared he would get none of the peace and quiet he would have preferred. Jarlaxle winked at him knowingly as he was ushered away by a horde of celebrating mercenaries.

 

**_Alone rises the steel-sharp mind_ **

 

“Congratulations,” Jarlaxle said some days later. They were out by the cliff edge again, on what Jarlaxle referred to as his scenic platform. “I hear you have gone up in the ranks.”

“So I have surmised.” Kimmuriel was wearing a new set of clothes, fine black spidersilk robes with ornate trimming around the neckline and the cuffs. There was a distinct lack of spider imagery. He was holding a goblet of surface-brandy, which Jarlaxle had pressed on him when he had arrived to the meeting.

“Not a month in my humble band of fortune, and already a lieutenant! Surely that warrants a little bit of festive spirit.”

Kimmuriel sipped the strong drink and grimaced at the odd, burning taste. He much preferred wine.

“I am certain that now, after you have had your spectacle, you can tell me what you wish of me.”

Jarlaxle sighed. “Pragmatic to a fault. Well, that’s partly why I want you. Fighters and spies I have beyond my needs, as you have seen. I need a psionicist, and a good one at that. One who does not shy away from battle, and a strategist able to create a practical means of retreat. A free mind open to unorthodox solutions. I wasn’t sure you were going to be that. I am seldom wrong.”

Kimmuriel didn’t need to read Jarlaxle’s mind to interpret that as the great compliment it was.

“That does sound… reasonable. What of my wishes?”

Jarlaxle raised a finely-formed eyebrow.

“Demands already? I may yet come to regret my choices.”

“They are easily granted.”

“Then venture on, lieutenant mine.”

“There is one one gamepiece still standing. I have found your spy. I have provided you with spectacle. I have dealt with the Faen Tlabbar who was out for my life. But tell me this. Who intends to collect the bounty on my head? It was not Geldaer. I saw his mind. He was consumed by vengeance and judged that an ample reward. Who is it, then?”

Jarlaxle glanced at him.

“You are well-informed.”

“I got the impression that is where my value lies.”

“Fine.” Jarlaxle spread his hands. “The vile, self-serving bastard who intended to collect the bounty on psionicists promised by several houses should you not prove worthy of the trouble… You’re looking at him.” He made an exaggerated bow, the feather of his hat brushing the table.

Kimmuriel huffed in amusement.

“I knew it.”

“Then why did you ask?”

“Because I would rather hear it from you.”

Jarlaxle let out a surprised laugh. “I have certainly got what I bargained for, and more.”

“I will be more, and you know it.”

“What of your other wishes, then, for I remember you stating there were many? Are they as easily fulfilled?”

“I want the help of one of your wizards proficient in necromantic spells to proof my room against the undead.”

“Oh?” Another eyebrow followed the first. “Have you had uninvited visitors, by any chance?”

“Let us say that I value my privacy.”

“That is easily granted, for I am strongly against ghostly trespassers roaming my base.”

Kimmuriel remained impassive, but his shoulders relaxed a fraction. The long game of deception, begun in his own house even before his adoption into Bregan d'Aerthe and before the khaless match, had finally reached its conclusion. He looked down into the rift and felt neither sorrow nor loss. Above all, he felt free.

“They say the Clawrift is haunted by the spirits of dead priestesses,” Jarlaxle remarked nonchalantly. “Hunting anyone and anything that dares to venture there.”

“That may be the case.” The psionicist continued to stare into the depths.

“Does it not gall you, the fall of your house?” Jarlaxle was testing him, trying to figure out how he worked. Kimmuriel almost smiled.

The priestesses of House Oblodra had been exceptionally cruel. Familial feeling was not expected. But the house had also been famously proud, almost fanatic.

“Why should it? My position here is secure enough.”

“Thousands of feet above the rift where your house fell.”

Kimmuriel only offered a hint of faint amusement.

“The irony must be appreciated, I suppose.”

They stood in silence for a while. Jarlaxle downed the rest of his brandy and turned to go. Kimmuriel could sense the surface of his mind buzzing with tiny little details and strands of intrigue, a day’s work for the leader of Bregan D’aerthe.

“They are there,” the psionicist said to the mercenary leader’s retreating back. “The dead. Down in the rift.”

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed your gift! I had fun trying to figure out how exactly Kimmuriel's mind works, and psionics are always awesome.
> 
> Many thanks to Morbane for beta and excellent advice!


End file.
